Daily Scripture in a twitter

'As a whole the Scriptures are God's revealing Word. Only in the infiniteness of its inner relationships, in the connection of Old and New Testaments, of promise and fulfilment, sacrifice and law, law and gospel, cross and resurrection, faith and obedience, having and hoping, will the full witness to Jesus Christ the Lord be perceived.' So wrote Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Life Together (page 36, SCM Press 1965 edition), that small but profound manual of communal learning he wrote out of the life of the seminary he led at Finkenwalde in the years immediately before the outbreak of the Second World War. It's one of those books I come back to again and again, as I guess many other people do as well.

The quote comes from the section in which he describes the importance of lectio continua - the consecutive reading of Scripture. For me such reading arises out of the prayer of the Daily Office, generally a solitary action. According to Bonhoeffer what is done alone comes to its most productive through what is done in community. I've been wondering how that could be translated into the digital age.

In preparing a sermon I always begin with the Bibilical passage and what issues or questions it suggests to me. I scribble down as many as I can without any prior research or any attempt at ordering or prioritizing (that comes later). I'm conscious, however, that I don't do any of that in consecutive Scriptural reading. Perhaps if I did, my reading wouldn't feel so rushed and peremptory. Bonhoeffer taught that such reading should not serve a purpose but should be for its own sake entirely. I recognize the value of the warning but perhaps he would allow me a slight adaption of a purposeful methodology. As an experiment, I'm going to tweet a thought or question out of my daily reading. They'll aim to be 'instant thoughts' - one believer's attempt to frame something that can mindfully stay with me through the day. Anyone out there willing to join to me?  

An innovating faith?

‘As you’ve shown an interest in innovation, you might like to know about the savings available on these books.’ Such was the tenor of an email I’ve just received from Amazon. Quite flattering really! Innovation is one of those terms that figures somewhere in the news every day. Indeed last week on several days the BBC ran four or more stories where ‘innovation’ was a key component. Innovation is one of those things that appear to be an unquestionable good. And that’s where Amazon’s data collection about my interests breaks down. For every Christian, innovation, when it’s applied to faith is a problem.

Maurice Halbwachs, the French sociologist of social memory, detailed the issue many years ago. Christianity, he said, is essentially the commemoration of the life of Jesus. This one event in all its complexity and detail is immutable. Jesus happened and, until Jesus returns, that happening remains set in time and cannot be changed. Whatever Christians do and say must always refer back to this happening. Innovation in the usual understanding of the word is simply impossible. Authentic faith must always locate itself in the teaching and life of the person Jesus. Should I as a Christian have any interest in innovation at all?

Halbwachs went on to say, however, that no institution that seeks permanence can be entirely orientated to the past. No matter how much effort is put in, memory is always attenuated over time. Even constant reference to a past event cannot stop that event fading both in content and significance. According to Halbwachs, social memory must always serve current needs if it is to be kept alive as a memory. The remarkable thing about Christianity, Halbwachs said, is the way it interpreted Christ as a constant presence even from its earliest days. Either through a constant and guarded emphasis on truth in church teaching, or through a mystical appeal to a believer’s interior connection to Jesus and his intentions, the church both formularises and lives the tradition – though those streams are often at odds with one another. Peculiarly this constancy enables innovation, since it allows current needs to be expressed as a refreshment of the Christian inheritance. Perhaps I should look more carefully at those Amazon bargain titles.

When is a sermon a sermon?

The Bank of England should have done more to prevent the banking crisis according to its Governor, Sir Mervyn King, speaking in the Today Programme Annual Lecture at the beginning of the month. But, he continued because banking regulation had been removed from its powers, the Bank of England was limited to ‘publishing reports and preaching sermons.’  ‘And we did preach sermons about the risks,’ he said, but the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street should have ‘shouted from the rooftops.’ The inference is clear: the preaching of sermons doesn’t change anything.

King gave his lecture a three-part structure: what went wrong? What are the lessons? What needs to change? The way forward he offered was similarly tripartite: regulation; resolution; restructuring – his 3Rs helpfully alliterative. Here’s a speaker who knows the value of mnemonic devises.

Early on in the talk there was a jokey aside addressed to a Today programme journalist – a nice human touch. Throughout there were simple pithy and memorable phrases: ‘take away the punchbpowl just as the next party is getting going;’ ‘a case of heads I win, tails you – the taxpayer – loses;’ ‘shouted from the rooftops.’ Here’s a speaker who can translate hard ideas into down-to-earth and catchy phrases.

And all this carefully illustrated not only by reference to recent events but also via appeal to historical characters: Montagu Norman, late 1930s Governor of the Bank of England and US President Roosevelt speaking in 1933.

Banking may not be the subject that immediately comes to mind as the topic for an engaging and memorable speech, but this certainly was. King’s presentation, in its delivery, content and structure was immensely listenable. In fact you could say it was a sermon, or at the least a lecture that employed many homiletic strategies. Perhaps preaching has more significance than even the users of its techniques appreciate.

Say it like Sarah Lund

I’m one of the millions of fans of Sarah Lund – the uncompromising, uncommunicative, and unsocial detective who leads in the hugely successful Danish TV show The Killing. Despite subtitles, plots elongated beyond any comparable crime drama, and the relentlessly gloomy weather of its settings, The Killing has found global success. In the UK audience appreciation figures have been phenomenal with the show often acknowledged as ‘the best thing on TV’; extraordinary for a show that on the face of it is far from easy, casual watching.

A recent BBC interview with Sofie Gråbøl, the actor who places Sarah Lund, gives some clues (!) to the show’s appeal. She says it isn’t a meal where all the dishes are served at once. Instead, things are served up in a slow and incremental way that demands the imaginative attention of the viewer. The audience isn’t allowed to be passive as this holding things back demands co-creation on the part of the viewer. Significant details emerge through time and have to be remembered. One crime is the focus; presented in 20 episodes where each is a day in the investigation. Famously, even the actors don’t know ‘whodunnit’ as the programmes are being filmed as scripts are written as the story unfolds.

There’s a lot here any preacher or speaker should think about. Perhaps it isn’t always necessary to serve up all the words at once, as it were. It’s just too easy for preachers to fall into the trap of making every sermon encompass ‘God, the universe, and everything.’ Important subjects can connect in a much more piecemeal way, if there’s an evident suspenseful and engaging development in what’s said. The audience will stay with it, even for very long periods (20 episodes), if imaginations are being stirred and mental concentration is provoked. In fact, people like to put this brain effort in – it’s enjoyable and satisfying. The blindingly obvious served up in a tedious stew of words neither satisfies nor encourages. Engaging the minds, imaginations and hearts of the audience is the clear priority. Surely that’s the aim of every preacher too? Let’s say it like Sarah Lund.

Authentic Flames

From Lands End on May 19th the Olympic flame will begin its journey around the United Kingdom – 8,000 miles or so, usually in the hand of one of 8,000 torchbearers. As the excitement grows, and there is more and more media comment, one question keeps on being asked, 'What happens if it goes out?' And no doubt the question weighs especially heavily in the minds of those chosen to be torchbearers. 

The answer given is reassuring: the torch has been rigorously tested beyond anything each bearer is likely to encounter, and, even if the worst did happen, there will always be a flame sourced from the mother flame lit by the sun's rays at the Temple of Hera in Olympia, Greece within a 30 second reach of the extinguished torch. To always have this backup flame from the original source available is in itself, alongside the actual torch relay, a remarkable organizational achievement. Why all this effort to guard one flame? 

No voices, however, are raised in objection. There is something profoundly befitting about this, and only this, flame being good enough. It has got to be the light lit at Olympia. It has got to be the outcome of the sun’s ray brought to a blazing focus on an ancient Greek site. Without going into the story of the theft of fire by Prometheus from the great god Zeus; without any defence of fire’s symbolism; and without any appeal to values expressed in a journey shared brought into focus when the cauldron in the Olympic stadium is lit – without all these and more possible justifications, the flame connects in people’s minds. Here’s an authentic sign that connects past Olympiads with the present. It is both ancient and modern. It is a self-authenticating sign; a sign that can be explained, but doesn’t have to be. It strikes as authentic in itself. 

Surely the flame of faith has to have the same authenticity about it? It is to be guarded as the genuine article, but it must not be curtailed and bounded by justifications that shade its light. It has to be seen as self-authenticating because it connects before the words are needed. It shines, and the shining makes sense – at least initially – by itself.

Signs of Forgetfulness

One of the great paradoxes of contemporary life is that the world as a whole is, in the words of the sociologist Peter Berger, as 'furiously religious as it has ever been,' yet when it comes to the things of inherited Christian faith, Europe seems increasingly forgetful.

Dawn at Lake Galilee

Two signs of forgetfulness noticed recently:
1)  In news reports the BBC has taken to describing the episcopal presence in the House of Lords as 'Church of England bishops' presumably so as not to be confused with all the other bishops in the legislature.

2)  Seen outside the branch of a very popular supermarket: a sign explaining why the store won't be open tomorrow, Sunday, as it is usually open on every other Sunday of the year. Apparently tomorrow is something called Easter that inconveniently happens on a Sunday and some ancient law linked to that day prohibits the store from opening. The incovenience to customers is deeply regretted, but the store will be open bright and early the day after.

Ah well, let's celebrate his bright and early rising anyway.

The Artist: a preacher's notes from a great movie.

The Artist simply looks great. Glitz, glamour, artistry, and spectacle are all there, yet the blockbuster techniques of zappy special effects and sounds aren't.  Or perhaps it's more accurate to say those things are there but hidden under the guise of 1929/30 equivalents.  Here is a fairly commonplace man and woman story that although told with pace and panache remains a simple tale.  And yet the movie holds your attention and provides an ending with a satisfying, even surprising, sense of completion. And there's certainly a lot to think about in terms of the speaker's art. That's a strange thing to say of a silent movie, but true nevertheless. Here, as a beginning, are four things that struck me:  

1. What we say or plan to say always has to work with audience expectations even before we open our mouths. The ticket seller warned everyone who asked for a ticket that the film was in black and white without speech. She told us, 'People don't understand what a silent film is, and we've had so many complaints, that I thought it best to be clear with people before they buy.' Likewise the narrative of the film has a direction to it which every viewer will instantly recognize. It's a love story that you know will end in love's triumph. Expectations are fulfilled, yet there is still surprise, satisfaction, and entertainment in the experience.

2.  What we say has to have a logic about it that the audience understands and can complete for itself. In The Artist questions asked in dialogues between characters are often displayed as texts for the audience to read. But just like the silent movies of old, the answering dialogue is usually not completed in text. The audience must 'read' the answer from what the actor does, supplying the words for themselves. Very soon you come to realise that this keeps the pace of the story going and you become unaware that the 'dialogue' is going on only in your own head and imagination. So often sermons and other speeches are rendered tediously slow and boring by the speaker completing everything and allowing no space for the hearer's imagination.

3.  What we say may be a story that is essentially simple but that doesn't stop it being riveting if it is well told. In this The Artist excels. From the beginning it's clear that the principal character is in for a fall. Likewise the young actress is clearly going to be fundamental to the outcome. A touching sequence early on, where the first filmed scene in which they act together has to be repeatedly re-filmed because he becomes distracted by dancing with her and can't concentrate on his necessary action, gives a clue to the whole story. And that clue gives shape to the evolving plot. In a sense the audience knows the outcome from that sequence onwards. The telling of the story becomes in itself the thing that engages. The shape of the story told shines through its telling - it doesn't matter that we know, or think we know the outcome. The preacher must have the same commitment to a telling that shapes and satisfies of itself. 

4.  What we say doesn't always have to follow the rules of what is assumed to be 'best practice' Peculiarly this silent film, which tells a story with nothing more than pictures and music, gives weight to the importance of words alone. The Artist reminds us forcefully that pictures can by themselves tell a tale. Pictures have about them a power of disclosure and engagement that goes way beyond illustration. That's a warning to any speaker. It's all too easy to fall into the trap of assuming that in 'a visual age' all words must be attached to seen images. The Artist warns us that doing so may tell a story quite different from the one being said in accompanying words. The pictures can easily obliterate the words. Casual 'illustration' of speech may in fact silence it; whatever words are said. If this is a televisual age in which images are all powerful in what they say, those who say things need to be much more savvy about what their hearers see, if those hearers are to hear anything.